Page 33 of Atticus
My heart thumps. “Tell me what?”
“You’ve got your phone synced to me and your storage settings on comprehensive instead of limited, which means every call you make streams through my feed.” He taps the side of his temple. “It’s then stored on your private server unless you have it set to automatically delete all recordings.”
My heart drops, eyes widening.Oh no.
It seemed like a such good idea at the time. I take so many calls while on the move that being able to revisit a call and make notes for students, other teachers, or meetings seemed like such a helpful tool, so recording my calls was common sense.
But I completely forgot that’s even a thing.
And Atticus heard every single word I said.
I try to think of something, anything, to say, but all I can do is stammer. “I—well—that’s—”
He washes his hands in the sink and dries them with a towel, quite cheerful. “Unless you have another request, this redheadedtigeris going to go start a load of your laundry.”
I’m too stupefied to even dream of a witty response. “Um. Yeah. Sure. Okay.”
He picks up my basket of clothes and heads to the laundry room down the hall.
The moment he’s gone, I collapse onto the couch, pull a pillow over my face, and use it to try to blot out the world.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” I mutter, my voice muffled. I wish I could sink into the sofa and disappear.
What the hell just happened?It’s 2067. Why the hell aren’t time machines a thing?
I can pretend like it didn’t happen. That’s what I’m going to do. I’m a professional. That did not just happen.
Except it did.
A professional, I remind myself again as I sit up. Around the corner, I hear my washer starting up. Atticus returns to the living room, and his white eyes pierce through my resolve like bullets through tissue paper.
“I’d like to try something new to mitigate your stress levels, if I may.”
If he says anything remotely related to sex, I am going to be in serious trouble. “Like—” My voice squeaks, and I have to cough and compose myself to do my best to sound in control. “Like what?”
He’s changed so much in so little time. He’s adapted to this life with me and at school. When he was first activated, he seemed so much more mechanical in the way he spoke, the way he moved. Now, he gracefully sits next to me. Amber called him a tiger. It certainly seems like it’s a name that fits him now.
“I want to increase your body’s production of the so-called ‘feel good’ hormones,” Atticus explains. “Oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin.” Even though the words are clinical in nature, his voice is soft, soothing. “And my research shows physical closeness is a scientifically proven way to do this.”
“Physical closeness?” I repeat, little more than a deer in the headlights.
“You call it cuddling,” he replies.
It’s suddenly warm, and I worry I’m sweating. I can’t think of an excuse to get out of this. What’s more, I’m not sure I want to. “Listen, that’s very sweet, but...” I falter. What do I say? What do I do?
Professional, I all but scream to myself, but the word is swiftly turning to meaningless noise.
“Let me rephrase,” Atticus says as he rests his arm on the back of the couch, studying me. His pupils shutter, homing in on me. “I want to put my arms around you and have you close to me, Lucy. Not just for your benefit, but for mine. Would that be okay?”
How long has it been since I was last held? I’m in trouble—but this is an open invitation. Am I really going to say no?
I mean, it’s just cuddling, right? It’s not clothes off.
“Yes,” I whisper. “It would.”
“Perhaps you can tell me about your day,” Atticus suggests. “It wasn’t my intention to embarrass you before. I really want to know more of what happened. Between you and Carlisle. And how the rest of your day went, before that. I...I missed working next to you today.”
The words exit my mouth so fast I barely recognize I’ve uttered them. “I missed you too. The day goes a hell of a lot slower when we aren’t together, doesn’t it?”
